I blossomed late; I’d travelled a bit, been a holiday rep and worked in a call centre, but I was 28 before I put on a suit for work.
I was given the keys to my Vauxhall Cavalier (1.8 Expression limited edition) and the chance to prove myself by the gentle, silver-haired travel legend, Brian Loynton. There were four area reps for the north; I had the north-west, and looking after the north-east was another travel stalwart, Jeanne Lally.
It was Jeanne who first warned me: “Don’t be deceived by the laughter lines and easy-going manner,” she warned. “Brian’s a man of high standards.”
I soon realised that the job of an on-the-road travel sales rep involved a challenging combination of ingredients. You were commercial adviser, PR executive, marketing guru, entertainer, counsellor and, one role I really hadn’t anticipated – delivery driver!
Soon my Cavalier was losing its showroom shine and filling up with the tools of my new trade: brochures, branded mugs, pens and key rings, sweets, bottles of wine, ring-binders full of spread sheets and a projector.
It always looked reasonably organised when I set off from home, but a few sharp braking manoeuvres quickly tipped the contents into the footwell, while the endless dual-carriageway roundabouts randomised the contents of the boot.
Despite all of this, I settled into the job well and quickly built up my network of agents. Sales were improving and Brian seemed happy.
Every Monday morning he would gather his team of sales reps for a review meeting. It was at one of these meetings, about three months into the job, that Brian announced he would accompany us on the road – one day each for the rest of the week.
And so it was that I found myself, suited and booted, at Knutsford Services on a dank Thursday morning in November 1994. I’d stopped on the way to take the Cavalier through a car wash, and used the opportunity to clear out the seats, putting everything out of sight in the boot.
Brian arrived early, cruising into the car park in his gold Lexus, looking every bit the sales God we knew him to be. I nervously greeted him and opened the passenger door expecting him to jump in.
“Just before we head off,” he said, “Let’s have a quick look in the boot. It’s a window to the soul!”
My heart sank. The inside of my boot looked like a wheelie bin at the back of Office World. Brian’s disappointment was palpable.
The boot inspection soon became a regular part of the job, forcing me to organise my sales gear regularly. Much like a teenager forced to tidy their room, in time I realised this new-found tidiness reduced stress and helped me maximise results.
It probably played a part in me being given my own sales team to manage, and I’d regularly ask to see inside their boots (with mixed results).
“Tidy boot, tidy mind,” Brian would say, and do you know what? I think he was right.
